Utor vel tolero

with smiling lips I reply
with heavy breaths I sigh
with a sigh I will never deny
with open mind I comply

Short but not sweet .......

My heart is sad once more
I don't know you at your core,
The belief I once had
is now hard and sad
You let me down and the hurt
again, treat me like dirt
I will never trust you
and what should I do ?
Let my soul be torn
and let my heart be worn
on my sleeve for all
and sundry to maul.

I am so tired and sick
how can I stick,
with you when you do
what you do and cannot be true ....

Lifetime

I am seduced by a tongue so sweet,

the liquid gold

so bright a future it foretold.

It didn't tell of hardship and struggle,

of love grown cold.

As I open my eyes and realise,

I was told lies

to compensate

for the hold on me that I almost hate.

With it's grip so strong,

I didn't know it was wrong.

I believed and held fast,

knew it should last.

No getaway,

you have to stay

and care, though no more for me

what will I be?

I can't leave, I have to remain

to stay and be,

for this lifetime; in pain.

My window

As I sit looking out of my window I remember so much. I can’t talk of these things but seeing my eyes reflected in the rain - darkened glass, I am forced to remember. Joy was there too, she saw and she remembered and she is well. Why am I the only one not wanting to think, to suffer, to relive. Is it a failing or a safety –mechanism, shutting away the outside world cushions the guilt, the pain, and the suffering.



My mind twists and turns and replays that day over and over, like a tape on a loop. The visions pass my eyes and the sounds assault my ears. The rush of colour and the high pitched squeals. What caused that, i am not sure now, but I can still hear it. Too many people, too crowded. Too many voices in my head. Sensory overload, the smells and tastes still there, hot tar and sweet summer air. A smell I can’t identify. What was it? That torments me, not knowing. I can’t close my eyes and make it go away, doing that makes the visions more vivid. I am almost able to reach out and touch the day with my eyes shut tight. It’s all in my head. I can’t shake it away, not today, not ever.


What starts as a normal day cannot be forecasted to become a living hell can it? Am I still living? Is this living? If it’s living, then what is death? Would I like it better ? Is it any different than this? Too much rolling around and unravelling. A thread leads me away, and I feel I am reaching the surface like a high diver resurfacing after an Olympic dive, but then that thread turns into a steel bond and drags me back again. Kicking and screaming, in utter silence.


It’s better this way, I can’t talk about it to anyone and the longer I don’t talk the more I can’t talk. A vicious circle of self-contempt leads me further into silence. Deeper down the path of self –destruction. You see I don’t need therapy. I don’t need analysing. I know it already.


The darkest days are best. The rain washing away some of the memories. I can replay the tape and yet my eyes don’t see it. If I stare out of my window. I only see glimpses of that day behind the glass. Blurred and water - streaked. I never know if that’s the cold, wind-blown rain or more my own water - streaked memories. Tears seldom fall anymore. Those tears were for me no-one else. Self-pity. It keeps me locked in here. In my mind. Alone, with the voices and the visions.


I have moved from place to place. Treatment after treatment and still they say I am unresponsive. What response do they need! What will they do with any response I can make. Will they laugh and rejoice that I have told all. No, they cannot be happy with what I would say. Will it return the day, make it go away. Time travel, no it can’t happen. If we could go back I would be the first.


I know. I am alive in here. I just cannot bring myself to the surface to tell them what happened was no accident. I wanted it to happen. I thought I would be free, instead I am locked in here, this dark cavern of replayed misery. I am not free. I am accountable to me and I don’t like it. I don’t want to be judge and jury, with myself as the accused. Locked into this never-ending cycle of flashes of guilt. He is gone. He hurt me and now he is gone. He will hurt no more. It is over for him and for them. Only I still feel his words like steel edged knives cutting and searing at the same time. He is free while I sit and slowly die.


They all think I have lost my mind. Prise me into clothes that are not mine.


Feed me food I decline.


Medicate me, with useless drugs.


I will not speak, I will not respond.


I am locked inside my mind.


And here I sit day after day, staring out of my window.

Thanks to Lisa Reinbolt for the first line ....

Fake

Excuses and lies,

the ties,


that bond us together.

What do we know of each other?

The physical and words,

the eyes deceive

and lying beneath,

no substance, no love.

No apologies you ever made,

innocent you laid,

on your bed

and long distance guilt you poured on my head.

Will I learn, from this.

My heart ever open

will always get broken,

by fakes and mistakes.

Broken Heart

The feeling is deep inside
my heart will break
don't leave me now see the light,

coming through the blinds
and searing the walls with the suns heat
it burns my soul and I know
you will not return

My heart has broken
confirmed by my tears
you walked, you saw
but you wouldn't talk
I wait, for eternity if I have to,

for your return which of course I know,
will never happen

The last song

She sat perched on the tall stool, the smoky jazz music fusing with the heady malt whisky. Heat lingering on her tongue well after the last swallow of the golden fluid. The cigarette smoke drifting in wafts across the hot, dimly lit club reminded her of the ghosts of a past time.

A members only retreat from the rigours of life. It was always hot and the music beat a throbbing tune, low and fast, then slow and funky. She loved this place and how the clientele seemed to meld with their surroundings, synchronising their excited chatter with the band breaking for drinks.

Letting her shoe slip, only her slender toes holding it inches from the floor, she placed her ivory ankle against the chrome and leather. The cooler temperature sending a quiver up to her thigh. She closed her gold-flecked jade eyes and a flicker breath passed her full lips. She'd decided to come here too soon and now she was trying to forget, but was visiting old ground helping ...
What was it the Americans called it ... ''closure''.

She didn't expect or want closure. She wanted to remember the whole thing. All of it. That's why she was here now. Where it all started.

The music had stopped and applause roared in her ears. The whisky was replaced and the next song began. Jazz fused with soulful notes. Her song. Christian's song. But she was alone, drinking whisky. A crystal glass filled with memories. The kind that flickered in and out as the lights caught the facets of the glass, shining amber jewels hanging, without strings, in the dark.

She looked through the crowd. Many different faces, all expectant, wanting things, the impossible and possible. All melted together. Inseparable. All with dreams and hopes.
She couldn't do anything for them. Couldn't fulfil their needs. But like her they felt the music and absorbed the moment. Like minded people. Free from all other thoughts. A few hours free from worry, who could begrudge them.

She felt her mind slipping away from the song she knew by heart, to a happier time. When she and Christian would come here together, earlier than the usual after - dinner crowd and sit at the bar sipping their drinks. Talking and laughing they lived for each other. They were happy with their life, as one.

She dragged her mind back to the present. The song was ending, like her life as she knew it. Christian was dead. She felt the sparkle of tears in her dark-lashed eyes and turned to hide the betrayal of her emotions. She couldn't imagine crying in public. Not now, not ever.

Now she was famous it would have been splashed across the front page of every tabloid in hours. Christian wouldn't have wanted that for her. Not like before when she was just starting out and had the audience spellbound as she sashayed amongst them. Singing from the depths of her heart, just for them. Songs Christian had written, for her.

Breathing out the last few words she graciously received the rapturous applause. And the next song commenced. Just as life goes on. With or without you.

My friend

She's scatty and can be catty
she's wild and free
and just like me
that's why we're friends

She's fun and my hon
she's alive on the ice
and she likes me
that's why we're friends

She's a beauty with a booty
she's truly the one
who copes with me
that's why we're friends

She's pretty and witty
she's special that's true
and as funny as me (ha!)
that's why we're friends

For my best friend Maxine ....

Written 2009

What do you want from me ?

What do you want from me,

naked and blessed with a lovely face,

kiss me then,

a healing smile.

Push me against the wall

but make me happy and

I will give you my all.

Clothing scattered,

my emotions tattered.

But I still allow you to have your way,

winding and turning,

this way and that.

When will I learn not to fall

at each caress,

each word you throw at me loosely I grasp

and hoard it inside me,

for one day you won't be there.

I await that day

while caring more,

than I should.

Why do we give ourselves,

only to suffer once again,

the pain.

Broken in mind and soul,

they; my friends cajole,

to bring me out of the despair I'm in.

I can never win.

I want the agony and I want the hurt,

to make me hate falling in love,

over and over with you.

February 2010.

My own dream ...

Touch. One of the best things we can do with our physcal presence. Our human body. We touch with our bodies, our eyes, but the best feeling I ever had was when he touched me with his soul.

He let me in. For a while. To see his life.

Letting me be part of the wonder, for a year of good times and 2 of not. I look back, over too many years and wonder why I didn't up and leave him first. Letting myself be dragged through all the emotional angst and still not coming out the other end intact.

I don't even think I will be intact ever again !

He claimed a piece of me and kept it, or witheld it in the ether of this existence somehow, and I wonder that until I get that piece back I will never be whole. The worst part of it all is I don't need him to give it back. I never have to see him to be whole. It's there within my grasp but yet still out of reach. My fingers mentally graze it bobbing about at arms length, always there taunting me. But the pain I know it will cause me if I hold it prevents me from becoming whole. I feel it zizzing my fngertips, like tiny electric shocks as though it were a faulty battery in a toy.

I need to move on. To do something. Why do I always follow what I don't want.

Someone elses dream for the time I'm with them, as I can't settle. I will never settle until I allow myself to follow my own dream. MY own dream ...

June 2009

Flying ...

He slept and while he slept he dreamt of far away lands and his body was flying.
''How can I fly?'' he thought whilst dreaming. ''I am skimming the gentle, grey waves of the lake.'' He had always loved the Lake District and returned there, as and when he could for a spot of 'R and R' as they call it. He laughed to himself, and spun and spun until he was dizzy. ''I better stop, or I may be sick and I'm loving evey minute of this. Who would think I could fly?''

He flew up, over snow capped rocky mountains and soared down into the lush, green valleys bursting with the new life of spring. Trailing his fingers through the flowers and grass he flew low next to the ground, narrowly missing prickly bushes and mounds of rocks.

He didn't notice that the seasons changed in the wrong order, and second by second not month by month.

Now it was Christmas and he shivered as he felt the snowflakes melting on his upturned face. Sticking his tongue out he felt the ice, it was cold and wet in his mouth. Tasting mince pies that his wife made, drinking dry sherry and hearing lots of childrens chatter he smiled. ''My children'' he said out loud ''now have grandchildren, and I love them all. I love Christmas and the excitement.''

His arms flailed and windmilled as he avoided the rooftops and newly bare trees that had dropped their golden leaves in Autumn. Autumn was his favourite season, he walked his dog, he remembered and smoked his pipe as he strolled along. The smells of the season came to his nose, fires in gardens burning off the dead branches and garden trimmings. The cool nip in the air and with the cloudless skies so blue.

The sun blinded his eyes, ''It must be Summer'' he exclaimed, and giggled. ''Why am I giggling ? '' and asking himself the question out loud made him laugh even more. He heard a bird chirping and tried to turn to see it, but it flew off before he caught sight of it. Yet he still heard its song near his ear. How lovely that we have animals and birds in the world he uttered. ''Life is wonderful and has been wonderful to me''.

''What's he saying ? And the machine that is beeping next to him is doing what exactly?'' he heard a woman ask, it sounded like his wife.

A male voice, deep and rich in its timbre replied ''He cannot speak, the stroke was extensive and I'm sorry to say it's affected his speech and all along one side. We have completed various tests, such as ice water on his lips to assess swallowing and shining the light in his eyes as you know to check his reactions and to fully assess his consciousness levels but he appears to be semi-conscious for now. The machine is monitoring his heart rate and blood pressure. We can only hope he will come out of this state a little bit more.Then he will receive intensive physiotherapy, speech therapy and more. Although it probably won't work.''

''HELP ME'' he screamed but of course no-one heard. He was trapped. His own body had caught him up and kept him locked deep within.

Given to me by a close friend

I believe in manicures.
I believe in overdressing.
I believe in primping at leisure and wearing lipstick.
I believe in pink.
I believe that laughing is the best calorie burner.
I believe in kissing; kissing a lot.
I believe in being strong when everything seems to be going wrong.
I believe happy girls are the prettiest girls.
I believe that tomorrow is another day, and I believe in miracles.

-Audrey Hepburn

"And this is the forbidden truth, the unspeakable taboo-that evil is not always repellent but frequently attractive; that it has the power to make of us not simply victims, as nature and accident do, but active accomplices."

Joyce Carol Oates
- Haunted: Tales of the Grotesque

She sits and stares at the walls. Where has her life gone, sucked into those walls never to return. She calls to her God, but it's too late, the years cannot return and refill the void.

She remains sitting and hears the noise but doesn't listen. She has heard it all before. Too old now to need teaching how to live.
She sits, her mind numb. Feeling aches and pains where once there was none. It's the emotional hurt that makes her grieve. Yet no tears fall. She has passed that point, many years ago.

She sits and dare not ponder her future. The loneliness extending down the years look bleak. It is too much to bear. Alone within a marriage.

Angel January 2008

My selfish heart

The tears come, damp not wet.
Silent sobs don't shake me.
Lying here, in the dark.
No-one knows.
You love me,
but can it be enough for my selfish heart.

Smiling, inside only.
I cannot tell you.
For it was not you that made my heart leap.
You catch a glimpse and your face lights up.
Expectation, will soon fade.
Playing the game, I give you a few moments.
You are lifted,
but I cannot give you my selfish heart.

Morning comes, dragging me with it.
Heavy limbed, I dress.
Sitting, I have to accept this mess,
I should treat you well,
do you deserve this crucifying pain.
Only I should have to live with my selfish heart.

June 2007

Not me in the moonlight ...

What is it about the moon that brings out the worst ... or best ... in people, in me I suppose I am saying. The pulling of the tides, is that really true ? I read it somewhere on the internet so it must be. Why do people feel scared when there's talk about moon -related incidents in the newspapers, just blowing things out of proportion ... as usual. I don't believe in were-wolves or vampires and all that tosh.

That's why I am walking through the park now, at midnight, enjoying the cooler air. It's too hot in my apartment, I feel the pull of the outdoors. The wind cools my hot face. The air con has gone on the blink and the doorman says the maintenance man is coming. He told me to be careful as I left the building, ''it's a full moon Miss''. Fancy an old guy like that believing in such fairy stories.

I walk in a dream a couple of times around the park and sated with the air I make my way back home. The doorman runs towards me shouting ... I am scared and turn round, expecting an attacker to be behind me and I'm ready to fight back ... only there's no-one there .... just dark shadows in the road ...

He drags me inside and sits me down gasping the questions ''are you all right miss, what happened, shall I call an ambulance, the Police, what happened?''

I sit and stare at him like he's an escaped lunatic ... ''the blood miss, on your hands and face, what happened?''

I observe my hands covered in blood and dirt, my old hoodie t-shirt splattered with blood ... I stand and stumble towards the stairs, got to get to my flat, wash this gooey mess off me ...

On the radio they announce the savage killing of a man in Park Avenue ... his throat ripped out and left to die by his works van ... the air conditioning company van.

I must have been so lucky. Sitting in my apartment I am breathless and my heart is going to leap out of my chest. I can't believe I must have gotten away from whatever attacked that poor man ....

Photo by R.G. (2009)

Written June 2009

The keys

The shiny silver basket lay between them. The filigree looked like lace. It rested on the mat and felt like a great big stone on the table. The weight of their actions certainly felt as heavy as the marble statuette proudly gracing the middle of the long table. It would be a naked cherub, it just had to be. Typical of this kind of thing.

They eyed each other up, not wanting to be the first to speak. Embarrassment or sheer madness clamping ther lips shut. The car keys resting in the bottom of the dish were the last set. How could they be here and how could this happen ... what were they doing ... she saw fear running through his eyes and knew her own mirrored something similar.

Everyone had chosen and paired off, this was the last set ... it was meant to be. Neither could face doing this again. They had chosen each other and there was no going back.

Maybe it was God's way of telling them or their guardian angel delivering them from the lion's den.
What was left in the bowl, the set of keys nestling snugly, belonged to the vauxhall Vectra parked in the driveway of the swinging party .... relieved they laughed ... he picked up the keys, and reached for her hand. Smiling, she sighed happily and followed him home. To their home.

Black Lillies

He saw them in the bin. The monstrous green wheelie bins the council made people use these days. Hanging out of the side of the bin they were. The black cala lillies he had bought her. He had specifically asked the florist to order them. Now they were hanging out of a bin. Not even 24 hours after he had given them to her.

It wasn't the price, although goodness knows they cost a pretty penny. It was the fact that she, the one he adored, had thrown them away. So soon. What had he done. He proved his love to her all the time. They saw each other every day. A smile lighting her face made his heart fit to burst, hearing her laugh made his day. The way she walked in her new red shoes.

Now this. He had to find out. Should he storm up the path and knock loudly on her door. He could text her, demand why she would do such a thing to him, his love that he showered on her daily. What about the old fashioned method of sending a letter, he didn't know how to ask her, for she had taken out a restraining order on him. Calling him all manner of things; a stalker; a mad person, saying in Court that she didn't even know him.

How preposterous, he didn't think that texting and calling and knocking on her door everyday to show his love was a bad thing. Isn't that what most girls would like. After all, what was that saying ''love makes the world go round'' ...

Written May 2009

Black cat on a wire ...

The wire moved, it looked like a spiders silken thread in the the light of the night. That silver - dark light. Where your eyes think they are seeing moving bodies and demons of darkness, but they turn to shadows as you peer through the soughing branches of low hanging trees and vegetation overgrown with neglect.

The cat, black as velvet and sleek as the flowing water in the nearby stream, passes over the wire. Unafraid he moves as though meeting his soul mate. In no hurry and not seeing the demons we see. The time to be afraid is when the cat stops and stares. He looks into the empty night and sees what we cannot. His ears lifted for sounds that we cannot hear. We should be worried, for whatever he sees and hears is coming closer ... ever closer.

The night hangs heavy. Yet the stars shine in a clear sky, but the oppressive air suffocates the throat. The cat moves with grace, as only cats can be described as doing and leaps to continue his life, off the wire.
He has a knowing sense of urgency and suddenly disappears, gone.
The wire swings as though it never knew a cat ...



Written May 2009